Meant to Die
by Intricacy
Summary: Superstition holds your life. Born in July, you are told by Professor Trelawney that you will die an early and quick death. Apparently, the Avada Kedavra fits that description quite well. Oneshot.


Meant to Die

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.

I apologize for any inaccuracy about the story below. It might be an early/quick death for all summer birthdays, or only July. I can't quite remember, so please bear with me.

I, personally, am not to fond of this story, but it's passable. Hope you enjoy the story, though, and please review!

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It is not what you have expected. You had expected raging a war that fired up in flames around you, with screams, shouts, and cries vibrating loudly in the air, pounding into your ears. You expected to see spurts of blood fly into the air with unidentified bodies, perhaps of people you either knew or did not, fall to the floor, silent. You expected your two best friends by your side, a fierce look on their faces. You expected your arch enemy Voldemort to rise amongst the sea of Death Eaters, looking regal and forbidden.

But the great war had come and went without Voldemort's appearance, and both your best friends are now in custody, having suffered severe injuries. You yourself have managed to escape with minor scratches and was recovered relatively fast compared to some of the more lasting damages. You still shiver at the thought of Fred and George Weasley--the once care-free twins that appeared from nowhere and set smiles onto terrified faces that were now condemned to the fate of paralysis, never to move again.

And here you are now, in the _final_ war. There is nothing so great about it. The silence is beating hard into your ears so that they ache, the pain somewhat worse than excessive noise. You lack your best friends in their battle stance on either side of you. There is no one--no one but you and Voldemort, a casual, confident smirk plastered on his face, rather than the intimidating appearance of his lips set into a straight line as you had anticipated. But his eyes betray him. Him and his relaxed appearance. His eyes are terrifyingly fierce.

You are starting to sweat slightly in anxiety as your wand in your right hand starts to slip, but you hold fast and stare straight at Voldemort, and Voldemort to you. The gaze is intense; it is one of these glares in which you can neither tear your eyes away, and nor can you maintain such a ferocious stare without feeling your eyes searing with burden. You wish to break the gaze, but you cannot; the force is much too powerful for you to overcome.

Nothing is happening, but you feel as though if nothing continues to happen, you will fall into death anyways, for you cannot bear such a burden. You open your mouth to speak, but your throat is dry and can only manage a strangled sound that is completely incoherent. Voldemort notices this and laughs.

"I had expected a great duel when I came today," he says to you snidely, his very voice--so empty, so hollow, so cruel--sending shivers down your spine and you resist the urge to wince. "And here I come, traveling all this way. It was not easy, you know, to enter Hogwarts without being identified. But alas, I am here--and what are you to say but gibberish?"

You are instantly reminded of Bellatrix Black, the dreaded cousin of your caring savior, your fatherly godfather, of whom you had mourned for and still are. You recall the mocking way she would repeat your words, making you both aggravated and feeling inferior at once. Recalling the passing of your godfather, rage sears within you once more so that it almost clouds your hearing.

He continues, ignoring your silence. After all, what is silence but to be ignored and broken all at once? "I am disappointed, to put it lightly. The great Harry Potter--The Boy Who Lived," he says, sneering at you. "Can he not even utter a single human word at a time in such crisis?"

You clench your fist in suppressed rage as you whisper threateningly, "I can. And not only that, but a certain incantation that you use commonly but are deathly afraid of yourself."

"And might that be the Killing Curse?" Voldemort mused, apparently amused by your determination. He seems to you rather cocky and arrogant, over-confident that he will succeed over you. "But I think you've quite forgotten. Have you not studied Divination, boy? You are born in July. You are due to a quick death; the Killing Curse quite fits into that category."

You recall fourth year, while you and Ron had refused to speak to each other. Trelawney had educated your class about an early, quick death for all those born in July. You had carelessly responded that you cared not, as long as you suffered no pain. Now, with death at hand, you chide yourself for the immaturity of your response. "Not all of us are as superstitious as you, I'm afraid," you say defiantly.

The smirk on your opponent's face grows in easy excitement about the upcoming event. You are aware of what he will say before his lips part to speak. "Prove it."

"I need not prove what you already know," you shoot back at him. "You cannot deny that you killed my parents for a _prophecy_. But, I suppose, you are such an evil bastard that all logic halts immediately?"

"Evil bastard, you say?" Voldemort says, his smirk only increasing. His fierce eyes retreat a little and a spark of amusement now flickers in the emptiness. "Remind me."

"You killed Sirius," you whisper, your eyes now aflame. "You may not have killed him by hand, but he has been murdered because of you."

At this, Voldemort lets out a resounding laugh that echoes off the silence that had dominated only moments before. "You are not as intellegent as I thought you'd be," he admitted, however rudely. "Do you think that Black would not have murdered her cousin anyways, had my existance ceased to be powerful? After all, who was it that forced the Order to arrive at a situation that was _clearly_ a set-up?"

You are speechless for a moment and the pain is suddenly washed over you, anew, fresh again. Finally, you find your voice and say, "And who organized the set-up?" Not waiting for a response, you continue, "What is it that makes you kill? Jealous, perhaps, that everyday people could have the joy that you had always refused?"

"Jealous? No; rather the fact that their unworthy existance _insults_ my being!" His voice grew louder as he was angered, his wand raised slightly.

"You're sick," you spit at him.

"That I may be," he agreed, rage once more gleaming in his hollow eyes, "and I am also sick of such small talk."

You close your eyes briefly and fidget slightly. You tighten your grip on the wand and summon your courage to kill. You bring up everything that you've ever loathed about this creature, every cruel thing that he has ever done to you. You feel the power coming to your fingertips that are clasped onto your wand. You raise it slightly and prepare yourself. It will all end in a matter of moments.

"You must know by now, Potter, that when I want something done, it is done--and quickly?"

The last thing you remember before sudden black is a flash of green light.

"You can deny superstition all you want, Potter, but you cannot deny fate."

And after black, it is all white; you cannot identify anything. Voices are clouded and muffled as they slowly succumb to silence.

"And you, Voldemort, cannot deny death."


End file.
